


Control

by edibleflowers



Category: Firefly
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm Reynolds doesn't dream. Inara Serra isn't paid to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Control

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place at various points during and after the series, but before the movie.

Malcolm Reynolds doesn't dream. That's what he tells his crew, anyway, when the subject is brought up during casual mealtime conversation. It's a lie and he knows it; he knows Zoe's well aware of it, too, but she just cocks an eyebrow and says nothing, turning to ask Wash instead what he was muttering about in his sleep last night. As Wash raises his voice in protest, Mal takes his dish and turns away.

It's better to lie about that. Much better than telling the truth: that his sleep is filled with images of fire and smoke, the corpses of friends, enemies, piled in bloody heaps because no one would dig graves (not that many of them were capable of it, at the end). Sometimes he's among the dead and that's when he sleeps soundest. There's peace in the grave's cold embrace.

Other nights, he remembers soldiers -- friends -- being picked off like targets at a shooting range, and wakes himself with the sound of his screaming.

* * *

Inara Serra isn't paid to dream. She tends to stay awake long after her clients have succumbed; even in sleep, they reveal themselves, sometimes moreso than when awake, and every piece of information she can gather is another bit of data she can use in her trade. Her work could be entirely impersonal, if she let it. Some Companions choose that way, even, preferring not to know anything about their clients, sharing as little about themselves as possible. Inara knows that there are clients who need that, too. But that's not her way. She has warm, comfortable relationships with her clientele; she knows them, remembers what they enjoy, finds familiar foods or drinks when possible to enhance every moment of their time.

It's one of the reasons she was so popular on Sihnon. Of all the Companions of House Madrassa, she was most sought-after; voices often whispered that she was sure to be the next House Priestess. Her devoted clients brought her gifts and gave her ridiculous tips, even when she tried to refuse them.

She sleeps only when they are gone. Even if they've paid for a full night, she's schooled in the ability to keep herself awake; after all, if a client puts forth the credits for the whole evening, they're entitled to it, and she has to be available for the full time period. It's only after they're gone, after she's lit an incense stick and drunk a cup of soothing tea, that she allows herself to rest.

She sleeps heavily. She doesn't remember her dreams.

* * *

Mal doesn't sleep around much. He had a girlfriend on Shadow, before the war, but when the fighting became serious, she stopped corresponding with him -- he'd been transferred to Hera by then -- and he never heard from her again. He didn't try looking her up after the fighting was done. He drifted for some time, drinking too much and starting fights in Alliance-friendly bars. After a few months, Zoe found him again, sobered him up. It was her suggestion that they try to find a new line of work. Mal vaguely remembered hearing talk of trade ships running supplies -- and more -- from one border world to the next, so he scraped together the credits he had left from his military pay and found a ship.

It was love at first sight. He didn't need a woman; he had _Serenity_. Any ship would have done, probably, but she was the one: he saw her and had to have her. He had a job convincing Zoe, of course, but she gave in before long, swayed if nothing else by his newfound conviction, the ring in his voice that had been missing since the Battle of Serenity Valley. They found a mechanic, then a pilot, and got her off the ground. The mechanic didn't work out -- too much concern for his dick and where he could stick it -- but in a way that was fortuitous because it led them to a mechanic who loved _Serenity_ nearly as much as Mal himself did.

Every now and then, in between a job or when the moment warranted, Mal would take advantage of an opportunity, a warm, inviting smile or a flirting pair of eyes. The moments were few and far between, though, and he didn't seek them out very often. He had no romantic notions of love anymore. Women didn't seek out men like him, scarred veterans, for husbands. Zoe, though she'd been just as gutted by the loss on Hera, had somehow managed to retain some piece of herself, and it wasn't long at all before she was being pursued (and worn down) by their pilot. Mal was glad for her, even if it seemed, on the surface, an odd pairing. But marriage was for her, for other people. Not him.

After Inara arrives on the ship, Mal quits even noticing other women eyeing him. It's not that he wants her to think him above reproach; the very idea is ridiculous, when he knows perfectly well how many men spend their nights between her legs. It's more that he doesn't see other women anymore. They all seem to pale in comparison to her dark, sleek beauty.

She makes him crazy. She knows exactly how to set him off, and she seems to enjoy it. He retaliates, whenever possible, embarrassing her in front of new passengers, snapping at her when he can get away with it.

For the first time since the war ended, he's thinking about someone who isn't himself. It bothers him. He's not the kind of captain who ignores his crew, by any means; Zoe is his closest friend, while Wash draws himself into the circle without being obtrusive. Kaylee's warm friendliness and cheerful smiles make _Serenity_ seem lighter, somehow. He'd fight for any of them, he cares for them. Jayne, perhaps, not so much; but Jayne is a mercenary whose purpose for being aboard, a semi-steady paycheck, is clear-cut. Mal knows to keep his guard up around Jayne. He guards himself around the others, too. He can't let himself get truly close. At the end of the night, Zoe's his second-in-command; Wash is his pilot; Kaylee's his mechanic; Jayne's a soldier. Mal sleeps alone, content to be an island.

But there's Inara. Inara, whose serene smiles hide a clever, wicked mind; whose pretty mouth can give barbed retorts as easily as it does sweet words; whose intelligence is perhaps deliberately belied by dark eyes a man could drown in. If she was just pretty, he could ignore her. But she's smart, too, and trained for years in the oldest, most traditional Companion ways. A man would have to be stone not to see her.

And Mal hates her for making him think about her; and himself, for letting his guard down.

* * *

Inara has lost count of how many times Malcolm Reynolds has infuriated her. She didn't think their working relationship would be so testy when she rented the shuttle. He was a mite tetchy when she told him he'd rent the shuttle for less than he'd stated, but he gave in, recognizing, perhaps, the usefulness of an onboard Companion.

She recognizes his behavior, of course. It's childish, immature, that of the boy dipping the girl's pigtails in the inkwell ( _Do they even have those anymore_? she wonders idly) to annoy her. It doesn't keep her from being annoyed at him. Even if he doesn't do it on purpose -- and she's still not convinced he hasn't rearranged some of their routes, sometimes, to deliberately prevent her from being able to do business -- he has that smug attitude that makes her want to smack him.

Companions learn control from an early age. It's one of the first lessons, as she is fond of quoting; first, last, and certainly the most important. A Companion must always be in control of a situation; managing clients is one of their most important skills. She's been in many a tense situation, a delicate moment where fragile egos must be handled cautiously; she's never had a complaint or objection. Her technique is refined. She's well versed in the art of the diverting compliment, the gentle press on an arm or shoulder to distract a person, be they client or other, from bellicosity.

Except for Malcolm Reynolds. She can't manage him. He's just that one person, it seems, who's perfectly adept at getting under her skin, who won't respond to her attempts at civility. She supposes it's because he's so uncivil. She's met many a veteran, but only he seems stuck in the war. The very way he instigates fights every year on U-Day: that alone tells her he's still fighting a lost cause.

* * *

Mal knows that the others are aware of the tension stretching between Inara and himself. He catches Kaylee glancing at him sometimes, reproachfully, after he's said something particularly unkind, or called Inara "whore" for the dozenth time in as many hours. Wash actually went as far as to suggest Mal try making an effort, but Mal cut him off with a glare before Wash finished suggesting what kind of effort he make, and Wash suddenly remembered he had a course to plot.

It doesn't matter, though; though it strains and stresses him, it won't last forever. Inara will be off the ship soon enough. She's already stated her intention to him, if not yet to the others (and he wonders when she will, what they'll say, if Kaylee will cry or give him hateful looks), and as soon as they're in the vicinity of New Melbourne, he fully intends to let her go.

She's in his dreams now and again, these days. Might be the first time in six years he's dreamt of something that isn't death and explosions. Not that she fulfills him more in those misty dreamscapes; if anything, she's more elusive, escaping his every touch, his slow attempts to grasp her. Filmy garments slide out of his hands; she laughs, a chorus of bells, and he wakes sweaty and disoriented.

He wonders if it would make it better were he to pursue her, in a straightforward way, as a man does any woman he's interested in. He doesn't doubt that she feels something for him, something more than annoyance and frustration, but she's always made it abundantly clear that she won't entertain any notions of liaisons, romantic or otherwise, from the crew. Which really meant him, he knew, from the way she eyed him while delivering that pronouncement.

The worst part is that she occupies his thoughts. She dwells in his brain, lounging about in the spaces he needs to use for focusing on work. He thought sleeping with Nandi might help, in some twisted logic he's forgotten now, so confusing it was. It only made it worse, of course, because he knew, above her calm statement that she was glad of the encounter, that it bothered her. Being preoccupied is a hazard in his line of work. He can't be pondering the fine sweep of her lashes when he should be worrying about whether the man who's paying him is cheating him out of his fair share.

He tells himself he'll be glad when she's gone.

* * *

Inara frets. She chafes. She feels as if she's climbing the walls. As much as she loves _Serenity_ , she wants nothing more than to be gone from it; yet that's the very thing she can't have. And she curses herself for wanting to be away so badly.

The problem is, Mal has seeped into her. She's too well-trained to let her assignations suffer; she's perhaps the slightest bit more remote, but not one person has commented on it. (Then again, she sees very few regular clients these days, what with the haphazard jobs Mal is taking in an effort to avoid the Alliance finding out about the fugitives on board.) Some nights, though, she lays in her bed on the shuttle, alone, and she fancies she can feel him there. He's part of Serenity, even in this place that she's made hers. She lets herself fantasize, hoping it might relieve the pressure of his constant presence. Imagining him with her seems to only make her want him more.

When they finally do land on New Melbourne, she feels she ought to be glad. She's arranged for transport, cleaned the shuttle of her hangings and decorations, her clothes and tea set and gifts from admirers. Everything is packed neatly into trunks. As porters bustle in and out, efficiently ferrying her belongings, she stands in the cargo hold and says goodbye to the others. Kaylee, brimming over with tears, hugs her tightly, presses a kiss to her cheek, tells her not to be a stranger. Kaylee's been following her around with a capture for the last week, recording Inara's last moments on the ship. River offers lines from a poem that, somehow, she's recognized as one of Inara's favorites, and Inara can't help but hug the girl, who's perhaps still not normal but stronger than she was when she first spilled out of that cryogenic sleep unit. Simon is formal, and Inara acknowledges it with a smile even as she leans up on her toes to kiss the doctor on the cheek. She hopes Kaylee will finally find the courage to make a move with him, or else to move on; Kaylee deserves a man who can be bold enough to show his interest in her. Wash and Zoe both give her warm hugs, and she feels an odd thickness in her throat when Zoe releases her; though she and the first mate have never been particularly close, Zoe is one of the most dependable, capable people she's ever met, and Inara will miss her quiet strength. Jayne, not surprisingly, stands in the back and has little to say, though he mumbles something about how her shuttle will smell better with the incense out of it, and she rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

Shepherd Book is already gone. They said their goodbyes two weeks ago, after he made his decision to stay on Haven with the simple mining colony. She'll miss him, too; her polar opposite, in terms of careers, and yet similar in many ways. She wonders if she'll see him again, or if she'll ever find out what secrets hid behind his peaceful smiles.

Mal is nowhere to be seen. She supposes she should have expected that. As the last trunk is offloaded, she murmurs one final goodbye to the people who have become closer to her than her own family, then turns to go. She'll cry later, in privacy, when she doesn't have to play the role of the Companion.

As she steps off the cargo bay ramp onto the concrete landing platform, a voice calls out from behind her. "Inara! Wait!" Obediently, if confused, she turns; it's Mal, of course, she'd know his voice in a thunderstorm. What surprises her is that he's running, taking the steps down from the catwalk two at a time, jogging through the hold and pushing past the others to approach her.

He stops, then. There's something in his eyes; she sees the simmering anger, wonders if he's going to snap at her again, once more for good measure, or if he'll do something insane like beg her to stay -- _what would you do if he did_ , says a traitorous voice in her head -- and then she offers him a little smile.

"Goodbye, Mal," she says.

"'Nara," he says. He touches her shoulder. It's bared by the slashed sleeve of her tunic, and his skin is like fire on hers. She represses the shiver she longs to feel. Before she can step back to break his hold on her, he's moving forward, leaning down, kissing her--

He lets her go. She can still feel the heat of his mouth, the contact so powerful it's still rushing under her skin. She swallows. Her cheeks are flushed. Control is gone.

"Goodbye," he says, his tone equal parts regret and longing, and goes back into _Serenity_ , without a backward glance.

Heaving a breath, Inara turns away. The transport is waiting to take her to her temporary lodgings. She needs to be away from _Serenity_. She won't let this change her decision. It's for the best.


End file.
